


Shall We Not Revenge?

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan has vowed to claim revenge on Aramis by denying him what he loves most -- women and sex.</p><p>So why is it that Porthos is so angry with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Not Revenge?

D’Artagnan would continue to insist that his quest for revenge was utterly deserved, no matter who challenged it. 

Aramis had, without even asking, borrowed d’Artagnan’s pistol (the pistol his father had given to him) and had returned it with a great nick in the hilt. D’Artagnan had complained, of course, but Aramis had protested that it could never have been him, given the care he took with other people’s weapons.

Obviously, d’Artagnan needed to get even and he knew precisely what he had to do to make Aramis understand what it was like to be frustrated when something he greatly cared about was taken away from him. He was going to make Aramis understand what d’Artagnan was feeling and that required taking away the thing that Aramis most enjoyed.

“Wine?” Athos suggested, after d’Artagnan had finished retelling his great tale.

D’Artagnan shook his head vehemently.

“His rifle?”

Once more, d’Artagnan shook his head.

Athos tipped his head to the side, as if ready to chastise d’Artagnan before he even got to the correct answer. “Women,” Athos sighed, not even bothering to ask this time. “D’Artagnan, I have known Aramis a very long time and I don’t know how you think you’re going to prevent him from sleeping with women.”

D’Artagnan, however, was not quite as dim as some of the musketeers would have others think. He reclined back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with smug pride as Aramis came tumbling into the tavern, adjusting his trousers and scratching as subtly as he could. “It’s as if it’s on fire,” he hissed in complaint, wandering off to order a bucket of ice water that he might take back to his room.

Athos tipped his hat to d’Artagnan. 

“And this is only the start,” d’Artagnan promised. 

“Be careful,” Athos warned. “I doubt you know what you’re getting into.”

D’Artagnan was hardly paying attention any longer, too busy watching Aramis with his discomfort, taking extra delight in watching Porthos laughing without end at Aramis’ pain.

* * *

For three days, the itching powder kept Aramis away from women, but he had taken all of his things to the laundress, who had not only rid every ounce of the powder, but had been a rather pretty woman who had caught Aramis’ eye. Desperate measures had to be taken. D’Artagnan had approached Treville, speaking humbly of the favour that Aramis had spoken about with D’Artagnan privately. 

“I know he would want me to tell you,” d’Artagnan said, hand over his heart. “Of how he so wished for his days to be free so that he might pursue volunteer work within the community.”

Treville’s lips quirked upwards, though he didn’t break. 

“Go on,” Treville coaxed, bowing his head downwards, as if to gather himself before he burst into laughter. “What else did Aramis say?”

“He wanted to work the night watch,” d’Artagnan said. “Twelve hours, so that his days might be better spent with the young children of Paris.”

“How many nights should Aramis serve out his punishment?” Treville asked.

“At least two,” d’Artagnan opined with a thoughtful nod. “Any less would simply be a crime.”

And so Aramis was informed of his night shift duties, which he replied to with calm ease, but D’Artagnan didn’t miss the menacing glare given to him as Aramis passed him in the courtyard. D’Artagnan felt rather pleased that he had managed to stretch out Aramis’ denial of desires out to five days, but thought that he could push it a bit more.

“Be careful,” Athos warned. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”

“Aramis wouldn’t retaliate,” D’Artagnan insisted. “Not with Treville watching.”

“That’s not who I meant,” Athos said, pushing himself off the banister without actually explaining who, exactly, was going to punish D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan filed away Athos’ words as simple warning and nothing serious, but in the process of ignoring his advice, he also missed the fiery glare afforded to him from across the courtyard.

* * *

By day six, d’Artagnan had run out of clever ideas. He was left, instead, with the very basic idea. If he was going to keep Aramis from women, he would fulfill another vice in its stead. This was how d’Artagnan’s pockets were nearly emptied as he plied Aramis with drink after drink until the tavern closed and Aramis’ breath was heavy with wine. The first night, Aramis passed out in the bar with nary a woman in sight. The second night, he curled up with the hay bales in the courtyard and complained of itching through the morning.

It had been a week and d’Artagnan thought, perhaps, that his revenge had best been served.

He extended a hand to Aramis when they broke for sparring. “Are we good?” he asked, but Aramis regarded the gloved hand warily, looking to the side (to where Athos and Porthos) stood. D’Artagnan felt a flicker of fear turning in his stomach, checking quickly that Aramis hadn’t a lit musket on him and had weighed the pain of his hangover and his frustration and had decided to take it out on d’Artagnan.

“It was clever, I’ll give you that,” Aramis said, but he neglected to shake D’Artagnan’s hand. “One week without the opportunity to bed a soul.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed, a nervous laugh bursting forth as he extended his hand again. “We’re even, then, aren’t we?”

Aramis sucked in a sharp breath, shrugging his shoulders as he rested his thumbs in his belt loops, stepping back and away casually. In his place, Porthos stepped forward with a heated look upon his face, pushing at D’Artagnan’s shoulder to ease him back to the middle of the yard, where pairs had been splitting up to begin their morning matches.

D’Artagnan realized that he was very right to feel fear.

“Come on,” was all Porthos said.

The rest followed in quick and extremely painful succession. Whatever glancing blows D’Artagnan attempted were blocked by Porthos, turned about until he had his bell rung at least twice, saw beautiful stars three times, and wound up on his arse at least once. By the end, he was bruised quite deeply and Porthos was laughing at him, seemingly far more loosened than he had been before.

He extended a hand to D’Artagnan, who eyed it warily. 

After all, those fingers had already caused him a great deal of pain (so much pain, he didn’t even know those places could bruise). “Come on, up you come,” Porthos said, reaching down to physically haul d’Artagnan up by the waist. 

Unsteadily, he swayed and tried to collect his balance, but being a human rack of meat apt for punching had left him without much balance. Aramis swanned in, placing his hat upon his head. It was only then that he clasped d’Artagnan’s hand and shook it firmly. “Forgiven,” Aramis said pleasantly, clapping a hand on Porthos’ shoulder and steering him away, that hand never leaving Porthos’ skin (his thumb brushing circles upon Porthos’ neck). 

They laughed as they walked, continuing on past the shadows and out of sight.

Athos approached only after they were gone, shaking his head minutely. “I warned you,” he said. 

“Why’s Porthos so upset?” D’Artagnan complained, trying to clean out his ear as if that would stop the ringing. “It’s _Aramis_ I stopped from having sex…”

Oh.

 _Oh_. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as he realized precisely why Porthos was so upset with him and why he was likely to have a fist-shaped bruise in his belly for the next fortnight. Visions flooded his mind of all the things he had prevented from happening over the last week and what was very likely happening in a private room this very minute.

“You understand, now?” Athos checked.

D’Artagnan nodded. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Good,” Athos murmured. “Because if you hadn’t let up, they would have been at my doorstep to complain, next.” He clasped D’Artagnan by the shoulder, but that was also a bruised spot (he feared there were none that weren’t) and when D’Artagnan hissed, Athos removed his hand in a hurry.

The next night at the tavern, D’Artagnan gave Aramis and Porthos a wide berth, but he did make sure to send them a bottle of the finest wine he could afford.

In return, they sent him two buckets of ice.


End file.
